


Just a Moment

by TheEarlyKat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: No Anders without Justice, Nonbinary Hawke - Freeform, Obligatory suicidal thought mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one thing that calms Justice</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [this fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/157334) by tevvintersoldier. 



Lyrium sang to all mages, a muted, soft note, ringing high in the back of the mind. It buzzed in his fingertips when he held the vial and fizzed on his tongue, warming his skin from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and settled comfortably in his chest when he drank it. It tasted like the Fade: like electricity and smoke – and more addictive than any dwarven ale for the rush it gave him; power at his fingertips, whenever he wanted, as much as he wanted, and he felt more mage than man in those instances. 

It was no wonder, then, that Justice enjoyed it more. Lyrium sang to him with the greatest power of all: home. It was louder to the spirit, a call to familiarity, to safety, to a calmness he could no longer find trapped in Kristoff’s body. Anders had no qualm about getting the ring for him. He understood what missing a place he could never return to felt like. He wouldn’t let another man – or spirit – experience it if he could help it. 

When they joined, he lost the buzz. He lost the quiet, half-remembered song. Instead, his fingers sparked, static across his hands, his tongue, in his throat on the rare occurrences that Justice couldn’t keep up with the supply of mana on trips to the Wounded Coast or busy days in the clinic. It called from the smallest drops in the bottom of the vials across the clinic, loud and clear despite the distance.

Anders found himself humming to the wordless tune when patients were slow to trickle in. He found his first thoughts before falling asleep and waking up were of the sweet music. He gravitated towards the lopsided shelves where they stood at the end of the day to let it soothe him after the work, set up his desk just beneath to write where Justice would focus on the song as they worked for their cause instead of the whirlwind that was the mortal world. 

He found himself walking besides Fenris more often than not when following Hawke.

___________________________________________

The first time it happened, he thought he was dying. The alienage would be the last thing he saw, the stars covered by clouds he could barely see through the twisting branches of the Vhenadahl. It wasn’t a cave running down into the dark, rough, claw-made tunnels scratched hastily and clumsy towards an even darker call, but he’d sworn he’d die under the sky. The tree, in all its mid-summer colors so strange in the dull browns of the rocks the lopsided buildings, would have to do.

Anders barely heard the sound of fighting over the song. It pounded in his ears like a second heartbeat, loud and fast, and the sword nearly tore through his chest if Hawke hadn’t shoved him out of the way. The men that jumped after him weren’t twisted and decayed, at least as much as any minds were for any human that would sell others could be, and Anders tossed them all aside with a mind blast. It was not his Calling. This was not his Song. 

And then an elf was there, loud and bright and [i]singing[/i], and Justice couldn’t hear the condemnation of his magic over the music. 

Of course, they noticed later, when the blinding noise became a faint melody, half-remembered, familiar tune, easily masked by the harsh pants of exertion as they trailed after Hawke through the mountains but warm against the bitter winds. Anders and Fenris snapped at each other between bandits, came close to blows once or twice, but then the song would flare up with the markings and Anders could only stand there, swaying gently in time with it, until Fenris ended their argument with a snort or Hawke with a questioning call.

___________________________________________

The second time was inevitable. Fenris was wounded – they were all wounded, but Fenris believed him more invincible at times than the rogue that led them and the blade had to be pulled from his side. The slavers were getting more desperate as the temperatures dropped, hunting anything that moved now to sell for warmer clothes or bribe for lodging from those that hired them and their ragtag group was left with the results.

Hawke was bandaged from shoulder to waist and a red stain blossomed in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin, but he was as strong as ever as he held Fenris down despite the threats and spittle that flew from the elf’s mouth when Anders neared. No magic, he screamed and snarled and spat but magic was the only thing that would save him, and even as the elf demanded another potion – another potion they didn’t have – Hawke demanded he heal him. 

The panic from battle still burned hot in his blood and Justice was more prepared for another fight than one more burst of mana. Anders’ fingers itched to grab his staff, cracks in his knuckles glowing blue even as blood ran between the lines in his hands, and slam it into another knee rather than use it for balance as Fenris shoved him away. The song was broken, but this close it still clear, and the adrenaline faded slowly from his veins. There was no one else to fight, the music sang, and Justice let the magic flow when he deemed them safe.

___________________________________________

The third time was not of his own accord. Anders was still an abomination, but Fenris grew lax knowing he had a way to control the demon the mage called spirit if he ever lost his own flimsy hold on Justice. They both cursed their lack of foresight, Anders quietly and sullenly, hoping the shadows of his clinic would be dark and long enough to hide the shame, and Fenris loudly, often, and angry complaints always accompanied by the smash of a bottle after the incident with Ella.

The girl had sent a message to Hawke, after, and both were glad to have Fenris there when the news was brought up. The Tranquil Solution was shut down, signed, almost unbelievably, by the Knight-Commander herself, and though the news was welcomed – more than Anders could have thought – it left room for a new plot to be worked through. Something worse, something more desperate than turning the mages into mere shadows of themselves with no way to feel the touch of light again, and Justice did not take the news well. 

The walls of the clinic were painted blue where they wanted to see red, shadows fleeing from the corners as fury reared its head as fast as they wanted the Templars to scurry from the face of Thedas. 

[i]They will not have them![/i] Justice or Anders or both or none wanted to, maybe did, scream and shout and cry, and then Fenris was there, markings glowing, arms out before him, eyes level and hard. 

[i]Look at me. Hear me.[/i]

The mortal world was anger and hatred and injustice and as hurt and torn and broken as they were, the bared lyrium spoke of softer things, of things they both wished they could have and give and share. 

Justice lowered Anders’ arms back to his sides, his hands unfurling a moment later, letting the sound ease the tension tight in their stomach. He listened a second longer, and let Anders’ anger go.

___________________________________________

The fourth time was on purpose.

Kirkwall was burning. It was a point on the horizon bright enough to rival the sinking run, the smoke rising high enough to be seen above even the tallest trees of the forests they put between their camp and the city-state. The fire keeping them warm in the dusk was a poor mimic of the ash that rained down on the streets to cover the blood he’d spilled and he rubbed his neck, absently tracing the mark his collar made around his neck when Fenris dragged him away from the Chantry before someone else could pick up the knife.  
His skin was hot under his fingers and he didn’t need to look down to see the flickers of blue that pulsed randomly along his veins. Justice had been restless since the riots were calmed with the Knight-Commander’s and First Enchanter’s death, pushing him back to the city even as Hawke led them away; the spirit had never mistrusted the rogue as much as he did now. Anders tried to quiet the thought, but Justice was persistent.

This was their battle to fight. The Champion of Kirkwall had no place in this. Hawke was not a mage and no matter how many talented siblings, Hawke would never fully understand their struggles, would never completely see the reason this was necessary, why he had to go back. He’d worked so hard for this. His blood, his sweat, his tears were mixed in with the stone and mortar raining down on Kirkwall, and if he was alive he wanted to see his efforts through, to see a Circle independent, disbanded even, with his own eyes and – 

Anders found himself on his feet and dug his heels into the dirt, squeezing his eyes shut. He took a breath and sat down again, legs shaking. 

He would die if he went back – he’d been prepared to die. 

The mages needed to find their own paths – it was his duty to lead them. 

Hawke would drag him right back – he knew how to hide.

Anders grit his teeth and swallowed down the taste of smoke on his tongue. The fire was suddenly too hot and he turned away. Hawke was curled up further away, asleep since Anders had said he could take the next watch. Fenris sat up against a tree closer to the fire breathing steadily, but for all his calmness his eyes flashed bright in the darkness. Anders shuffled towards him. 

“Mage.”

“I won’t run,” Anders said, though unsure of whether he was telling the elf or the spirit. Fenris frowned and Anders felt the same disagreement from Justice like a rumble down his spine. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. 

“Your demon-”

“Is not very fond of the word,” Anders grumbled. Fenris snorted. “I told Hawke – this was all my idea. Justice only…gave me the strength to do it.”

“And soon it will give you more power and you will-”

“I should be there,” Anders interrupted again, a pain in his chest twisting his heart and squeezing his lungs until he thought he’d never be able to draw in another breath again. “I should be helping the mages – the ones still alive – to make their decisions. About where to go, what to do, how to live.”

“You should be-” Fenris shook his head and cross his arms. “I am sorry, mage.”

Anders sat besides him and folded his knees close to his chest. “I should be. Dead – I mean. I was waiting for it. The knife. I don’t know which is worse anymore, to be alive or dead.” The knife would have been its own sort of justice, he thought, but so would have been action before this. If Elthina had listened, if Meredith only saw further than the first mage in her sight, if Karl had just escaped with him – 

Ander pressed his face against his knees and bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep the pitiful sound from escaping his lips. Nothing had gone right. Nothing would go right. Not unless he was there, not unless he could finish what he’d started –

Anders leaned over and shoved his weight against Fenris when the elf pushed him away. 

“What are you doing?” His voice was low, afraid to wake Hawke, maybe, but no less dangerous.

Anders let his head drop against the elf’s arm. His skin sung, so light and gentle it almost hurt and with Justice so close he could feel his heartbeat slow to match the tempo. “He won’t shut up – just let me – for one moment – I’m [i]begging[i] you.” 

Fenris answered only with silence and Anders let out a shaky breath. The call of home and safety was more than enough to distract Justice and the lyrium promised a power to do more, to do better. They would, Anders thought. Soon. Justice left it at that uneasy agreement. 

In the quiet of his mind, Anders slept.


End file.
